


Third

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: In which Býleistr Laufeyson makes his choice.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 121
Collections: Flurries - The World of Frostbite





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate POV for the end of Frostbite - so there are fic spoilers ahead!

The king, they say, is dead.

Býleistr stands in the doorway to his chambers. Both of his guards are missing, and unfamiliar warriors stand in their place. They will tell him only that he is to remain in his chambers, and it is a passing maid who first speaks of Loki Laufeyson’s murder. 

Stone-still, he stands, halfway inside his chamber, halfway in the hall, attempting to process the news. More servants hurry past, and he hears shouting and cries. “Are we under attack?” he demands of the guards, certain that Asgard has come to rid the Nine of Laufey’s children, once and for all. He’s spent his entire life dreading this very moment.

“We are not under attack, Prince Býleistr,” one of the men replies. “You are to remain inside your chambers. It is the will of the king.”

Býleistr's skin feels cold and clammy. He nods, uncertain, and steps back into the comfort of his own chambers, closing the door and locking it behind him. _The will of the king. The king is dead._

He’s still trying to wake up his groggy brain when someone knocks on the door, and he knows, even before he opens it, that his mother is on the other side. She hurries into the room and embraces him, accompanied by not even a single maid or guard. His mother’s hair is loose and messy; she must’ve hastily braided it herself. She has never had the patience to plait her hair properly. _Why the haste?_ The pit in his stomach grows heavier. 

“I do not know the guards at my door,” he tells her.

“Býleistr, son, your brother has acted against Loki. Decisively.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Loki Laufeyson lies mortally wounded,” his mother replies. She stands a little straighter, but her hands retain their death-grip on the rough fabric of the drab coat that she wears. It isn’t a cloak he has ever seen her wear before, and he frowns.

“That is not possible. And why are you wearing a servant-girl’s robe?”

“I was not to leave my chambers without an escort. I thought it best to be discreet. My ladies brought a message— I do not understand it, Býleistr. He assured me that he would content himself with his position as heir apparent.”

“He did not speak to you?” he asks, his shock shifting towards suspicion. “Do you really expect that I will believe Helblindi acted without your knowledge, Mother? He never does a single thing without blathering about it—”

“Hush,” she whispers, clasping his shoulders. “Listen to me. Helblindi has boasted that he is burning Loki’s wicked heart - he is dying, if not dead already. I do not know how many your brother has already had removed to the dungeons, but I know that some of the Lesser Children are among them, as are some of my maids. We must put up a united front, Býleistr. Now is not the time to question your brother.”

“I see,” he says. 

He wonders if In-Unga always feels so cold. So small. So helpless.

“The others? The mortal?”

“What does it matter?” she cries, her fingers tightening like talons. “Are you not listening to me? We must make the best of this opportunity. There is no other option. What Helblindi has done is done, and you are no longer the third son of Laufey, but the immediate heir to the king.”

“Have they killed her already?” Býleistr asks. Keeping his voice even is easier than expected. “If they have killed her, Loki will be glad to die.”

His mother appears taken aback, but then her features smooth, too, and her eyes shutter. “I told you that you should not grow attached. The girl will die soon, whether or not Helblindi executes her alongside her master.”

“So, she is not dead, then.” 

“Where are you going?”

“I would see for myself what Helblindi has done.”

“I forbid it, Býleistr.”

“Mother—”

She catches hold of his arm. “Son, he may kill you.”

He stares at his mother. Even when she is _unmistakably_ frightened, her scent and heart rate betraying her, she has always done an impressive job of pushing that fear aside, ignoring it, putting on a brave face. It is expected of a queen to show a brave face through any adversity.

In his mother’s eyes, Býleistr sees fear.

Bile rises in his throat. He swallows. “Helblindi is my brother,” he says, and to his own ears, his words sound faint. “He would not…” He decides to try again. “He has no reason to doubt my loyalty, Mother. I have never acted against him. I only did as you thought best; we agreed that Loki’s kingship is necessary for Jotunheim’s survival. I was practically used as a _hostage_ because of Helblindi and his temper—”

“Yes,” she interrupts, “but I do not know what he will do if you give him any reason to doubt you.”

He shrugs out of her embrace. “I am sorry to disobey you, Mother,” he says, “but I must see for myself.”

He walks down the halls, his pace measured. The palace is eerily silent. Every so often, his ears pick up the faint, distant sounds of a scuffle, but none of the disturbances last long. The coup is quick and efficient. He is surprised that Helblindi was able to plan something so subtle. The torch in his hand feels heavy, but Býleistr is grateful for the light.

The darkness is stifling.

The guards at the door are not eager to allow him inside the storage room where they’ve stuffed their king, but Býleistr tells them that he wants to twist the knife, and they do not stop him when he pushes open the door. He is unprepared for the sight of it. In-Unga clings to a corpse, covered in blood - not her own, though the realization does not bring Býleistr as much comfort as he would’ve hoped. A faint, third heart beats in the darkness. Loki lives, then. 

The king is not dead. 

In-Unga’s eyes hold murderous rage. _Betrayal_. A knife is in her hand. He cannot look away from it. She is coiled to strike. “Well?” she hisses. “Why are you here? To gloat? I guess the time to choose came, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replies. “I suppose it did.” He crouches down, finding the bloodstained wad of fabric tied to Loki’s side even more compelling than the mortal’s blade. He has seen Loki in a fair fight; Helblindi did not face him in a fair fight. _In a fair fight,_ he thinks, _Loki would doubtlessly be the victor, and Helblindi knows it._

“It’s just a little wound,” she tells him. “It’s so little, just a _scratch_ for him, but… but he won’t wake up. What’s wrong with him?”

“Bloodburn, I believe. A poison - it is toxic to all except the fire demons of Muspelheim, but the effects are particularly severe on a jötunn.” By all rights, Loki should already be dead. 

“Why? Why would they do this to him?”

He cannot look her in the eye. He can hardly stand to look at any part of this gory, miserable tableau. Moments stretch painfully, and Býleistr doesn’t reply. 

“Did you know? Did you know, Býleistr?”

“No,” he replies. “I did not know, but I suspected.”

She sobs, and Býleistr lapses once again into an uncomfortable silence. 

“You will not have long to be with him,” he finally manages to say. “Helblindi will have him taken to the deeper cells beneath Utgard, until he can organize some spectacle of a trial for him.” 

“And then?”

“And then he will die, In-Unga. You must prepare yourself,” he tells her, and then he stands to leave, because he can bear no more. “I must go, before I am missed in the throne room. Say your goodbyes, while you still can.”

He leaves her in the darkness. 

* * *

Loki looks disgusting. Every vein shows through his skin, and minute cracks have begun to form around his lips and eyes. Býleistr’s lip curls. “Are you dead, Brother?”

One eye opens, but barely. “No.”

_Death-rattle,_ Býleistr thinks. His skin crawls. It is a very unclean death that Helblindi has forced upon Loki, and Býleistr would be more comfortable speaking with an actual corpse. In his current state, Loki reminds him too strongly of stories of the reanimated dead told to him by his nursemaids late in the long winter nights to frighten him. “I cannot hear your heart beating.”

“Slowed it,” replies Loki, not at his most eloquent. “Painful.”

Býleistr is intrigued - but now isn’t the time to ask questions about his brother’s magic. He’s missed the opportunity to ask; Loki will be dead soon. It is a shame. 

“My wife,” Loki says. 

Býleistr’s blood turns to ice. _Wife? ‘Mate,’ surely, but… Perhaps he is conflating the terms. He could not have married a human._

“We’re wedded,” Loki says, struggling for another tired, shallow breath. “Jötunn rites. I want someone to know.”

Býleistr’s breathing feels shallow, too. “Who…?”

“Hrossþjófr.”

“Helblindi will kill him.”

“He will try.” He takes a breath. Býleistr thinks he sees one of the cracks near Loki’s mouth deepen. “My wife?”

“She lives,” Býleistr tells him. “For how long, I cannot say.”

“You must save her, Bý.”

Býleistr winces. Of course. Loki chooses _now_ to call him by familiar nicknames. Is it an attempt to provoke pity? A twist of the knife? Does Loki hope to haunt him after death? “I owe you nothing,” he says, brusque. He already risks too much for the sake of curiosity; he cannot possibly put his own neck on the chopping block for Loki. It’s unreasonable. Loki surely knows that he is asking the impossible. _Surely._

“You lie to yourself,” Loki replies quietly. There is no anger there, nor venom. Býleistr hears sadness. _Disappointment. Pain_. Somehow, it is worse. Something cold digs into his chest. 

“I cannot save your life,” he says. He needs his brother to _understand_. “Do not ask it of me, Loki.”

“I know. The others… and my wife, Býleistr. Above all others, save her.”

“How—”

“As a prize.” Loki’s head nods; Býleistr doesn’t know how he’s managed to muster the energy to speak, but his visible decline grows more rapid by the moment. “He’s offered her before, hasn’t he? For your loyalty?”

“I never accepted such a bargain, Loki,” Býleistr says, because - for some reason - it seems vitally important that Loki understands that, too.

“The Allfather will send men. Soon. Get her to them, somehow. Thor will take her home.” He gasps for a breath, something popping in his chest as he does. The guards, it seems, have been busy breaking Loki into pieces for his next public appearance. “To Midgard. All I ask of you.”

Býleistr’s gaze falls to the mate-mark on his brother’s skin. He was never naive enough to believe that his mother _loved_ his father in the way that his brother loves In-Unga, but even she sometimes weeps when she believes that no one is there to see her, her hand pressed to the mark she prefers to keep hidden. Can a human heart bear that kind of loss?

“I cannot promise it. I won’t die for you, or for her, or for any of the others.”

Loki’s lucidity has slipped away, and Býleistr doubts that he even hears him. His shoulders sag. He decides to allow himself a moment to wallow in doubt and self-pity, for he mustn’t seem anything less than elated when he steps out in front of Helblindi’s men. And, truly, should he not be elated? Loki is a usurper - he’s threatened all of their lives and made a mockery of ancient traditions. He has tainted the sacred power of a mate-bond by forming one with a _mortal—_

A mortal who, at the end of the day, is just an ordinary woman. She has people she loves and things that make her laugh and things that make her cross, no different than any jötunn woman - no different than his cousins or half-sisters, or even his mother. Watching In-Unga of Midgard suffer and die won’t make him happy. Watching Loki die won’t make him happy, either, but the Norns have already decided, and they have not decided in Loki’s favor.

“I will do what I can,” he tells Loki’s unconscious, crumpled form, and then he straightens his back and knocks on the door to summon the guards.

* * *

Býleistr smothers a yelp when he hears a faint knocking on his window. He moves towards the curtain with a dagger in hand, ready to assassinate the assassin that his brother has sent for him. He grits his teeth and prepares to strike—

It is Rekwaz. Býleistr steps aside to allow him into the chamber, baffled. “How…?”

Rekwaz shrugs. “I climbed from my window,” he says. “No one is keeping watch on the walls.”

Býleistr has the unpleasant mental image of hundreds of wiry, pale canyon-dwellers silently scaling the walls of the palace. “Clearly an oversight.”

“What has happened, _frijōndz_? There is a blood-scent in the air, and I overheard servants passing in the hall speak of the king’s death.”

“They… Did Helblindi’s men not come to take you into custody?” It’s almost laughable. Rekwaz would make a valuable hostage, and Helblindi’s forgotten that he even exists. _What a wonderful king you will make, Brother,_ Býleistr thinks. “Never mind. You’re no use here in Utgard; I imagine he has already gotten Greip and Gjalp.”

“No use?”

“Helblindi has taken the city, the palace, and the throne,” Býleistr says, hurrying to one of his shelves to dig through neatly-bound stacks of parchment. “He will kill anyone who might pose a threat - that includes you, Rekwaz. I imagine that his men are busy rounding up all of the Snake Loyalists in the city. You should be able to creep past them.”

“Are you suggesting that I have a tendency to _creep_?”

“Yes.” He presses a small square of parchment into Rekwaz’s palm. “Old plans for the city walls - I found them after Loki began the repair efforts. If you hurry, you can make it to Ymir’s Wounds and warn your father that the wind in Utgard has shifted. Stay beneath the surface; even Helblindi would not try to conquer the canyons.”

“But, Býleistr, what about In-Unga? Greip and Gjalp? What about your brother?”

“It is too late for them,” Býleistr replies firmly, steering Rekwaz back to the window before the guard at the door overhears them. “We have to save ourselves.”

* * *

_“Kven skal synge meg_

_i daudsvevna slynge meg_

_når eg helvegen går_

_og dei spora eg trår_

_er kalde så kalde, så kalde…”_

Somewhere in the darkness, a giantess sings songs of the death-road. Every step he has taken in the last days has seemed to carry Býleistr deeper into his own personal Hel. 

His anger towards Loki’s mortal is sharp and stinging, a thorn caught in his heart. She should have listened to him. He told her to flee to the coast, to seek refuge with the Jötnar who held her dear, hadn’t he? He’d tried to make her understand - to make them both understand. They could have been happy together, just the two of them, somewhere far from Jotunheim - far from Laufey’s children.

Býleistr knows that he does not possess the powers needed to keep In-Unga alive in the harsh cold of Jotunheim. He knows, too, that she is no longer wholly human - a fact that no one else seems to have recognized. Helblindi will not tolerate a magical mortal in his realm. He grips the wooden cup tighter, sharp little hooks pulling his mind in a hundred different directions. Loki is right; if Býleistr can just keep her alive long enough, he can find a way to make contact with Asgard, and then… Then, he doesn’t know what will happen. If he gives In-Unga over to the gods, Helblindi will kill him. If he goes with her, he will never be able to return home.

The giantess’s wailing seems to pierce his skull. He grimaces, and when he rounds the corner, he smells In-Unga before he sees her, scuttling back to hide in the shadow of her cell. He slides the cup through the gap in the bars, and she creeps closer. Their eyes meet. He sees nothing but hatred, and the lukewarm water splashes his cheek and chest as the cup flies past him to smack against the stone behind him. 

He flinches. He hopes that it is too dark for her to notice.

“Are you happy?” she demands, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Are you _happy_ now, Prince Býleistr?”

He doesn’t move.

In-Unga stands, weak but regal - _a defeated queen,_ he thinks, _still fighting._ “Say something,” she orders, and when he does not answer quickly enough, she lunges forward, wrapping her dirty, bloody hands around the cell bars. “Say something to me, you coward. _Say something to me.”_

Býleistr closes his eyes for a moment. It is difficult to think of words. The pounding in his head drowns them all out. “My brother has given his trial,” he says. “The execution will be soon. He is gathering more of the _traitors_ who swear fealty to Loki Laufeyson, and then he will be done with it. The longer he waits, the more he risks.” 

He hesitates, and then he takes off his vest and pushes it through the bars of the cell. It is a risk, surely, for her guards might notice and report it to the new king. She is cold, though. He doesn’t know if she realizes how much danger she is in from the very air around her. In-Unga remains stubborn, though, and the vest falls to the floor. He hopes that her stubbornness will subside, once he is out of sight. “It will be over soon,” he says.

“Please, Býleistr,” she sobs, reaching out to him through the bars. “Please, _please._ You can’t let him die, you can’t - I’ll do anything. _Anything,_ Býleistr.” She clings to his tunic. All of the stories he grew up hearing about the wildness of mortals, and this is the first time that she has ever truly seemed to him like some sort of feral animal. “Please.”

_Anything?_

She _would_ do anything. He knows that she speaks the truth. He could have her in any way he wanted, if he wanted, all other bargains aside. 

The thought makes his stomach twist. He feels disgust - towards her, for showing her fear and desperation so plainly, towards Loki, for being so careless, towards himself, for ever entertaining notions of having the mortal on her knees and at his mercy. 

“It is over, In-Unga,” he says. His fingers wrap around yours, but he doesn’t try to untangle your grip on his tunic. “There is nothing you can do.”

“Let me be with him, then. At least let us be together.” 

“That is not my decision—”

“You can convince Helblindi! Please, I need to be with him. I love him, Býleistr.”

“I know you do,” he says, trying to pry her cold, grasping fingers from his tunic without causing her any more injury. “I know.” He takes a step back. He has not slept since the night before Helblindi’s ascent, and for a moment, he sees in In-Unga an avenging ghost, sent from the Void to torment him. He retreats, and his own cowardice is yet another thing to add to the growing pile of things that he loathes. “Try to forget that you do. It will only cause you more pain.”

“Wait! Loki is a good king. You _know_ he’s the better king! Jotunheim _needs_ him.”

Býleistr doesn’t dare to look back. Behind him, he hears In-Unga weeping.

* * *

Minutes turn to hours, and hours drag into an eternity. Helblindi’s court is even more unbearable than Loki’s. Býleistr bites his nails to the quick. No one seems to notice, and even if they do, they do not mention it. In-Unga would mention it, he is certain. Loki might’ve even teased him about his nerves. _“Worried about something, little brother?”_

But he would have noticed. 

Helblindi continues to smugly assure his sycophants that the ‘witches in the West’ have been dealt with, and the majority seem to believe him. Some of the older lords in the council share reproachful looks when their newest king speaks of assassinations in the dark of night, but none challenge him. The conspicuous absence of those who favored their previous king is enough of a deterrent. 

If Hrossþjófr and his kin are dead, then there is no hope of salvation from the coasts. Býleistr can only hope that Helblindi is overconfident; even if Lady Hyrja was murdered, surely her children still live? They will not forget, nor will they forgive. Helblindi has begun a war with the Stormr-Jötnar, and he does not appear to have any detailed plans for winning it. 

“Perhaps, Brother, it would be better to send Loki back to Odin in chains,” Býleistr dares to suggest. “The Allfather possesses the power to bind Loki’s magic; for a sorcerer of note, is that not a fate worse than death?” When the response is not immediate, he quickly adds, “Loki’s return could be used to keep Asgard at bay for a while longer, as they are surely eager to come claim the Casket.”

Skaði gives him a strange look, but it flickers and is gone. “It would be best if we could forestall war with Asgard, sire,” she says. “At present, we are not equipped for it. We would suffer defeat. If we placate the Allfather and bide out time—”

“Jötunn kings do not _placate_ the Æsir,” Helblindi interrupts. “Loki will die, weak and fearful, before all of the kingdom that he dared to rule. It is my final decision.”

Býleistr bites the inside of his cheek. “Of course,” he says, knowing that arguments are pointless. “For my unwavering familial support, however…”

Unexpectedly, Helblindi laughs. “What do you want, Býleistr?”

He tastes blood. “The girl.”

“I guessed as much, though I am surprised to hear you admit it so easily. You know, you are the one who gave me the idea to keep the creature alive for Loki’s trial; I remember you mentioning how greatly he suffered when she was near death.” Helblindi’s smile widens. “There will be other mortals, once we have conquered Midgard. You can have a menagerie, if it suits you. Loki’s pet must die alongside him. It paints a better picture for any snakes left lurking in my court.”

“No,” he says. The rest of the room is so quiet that he could hear a snowflake falling. He crosses his arms. He has always been better at bluffing than Helblindi. “I have made my interests clear. If you’d like for me to smile and nod and do your bidding, then you can at least spare a single human for my entertainment.”

“How covetous you are, Býleistr.” Helblindi shifts in his seat, disgruntled. “Take the mortal, then.”

Býleistr inclines his head and tries to resist the urge to hurry down to the dungeons. The metallic taste of blood is still strong. He hopes that Helblindi is too preoccupied with victory to notice his racing heart. 

“Wait,” Helblindi says, holding up a hand as Býleistr begins to back out of the chamber. “You can have your pet after I am finished with her.”

Býleistr’s relief evaporates. “Alive, I trust?”

“Skin still warm,” Helblindi reassures him. One of his Bergrisar guards lets out an ugly laugh, but the air in the chamber remains tense. 

Býleistr’s expression does not change. He is proud of that fact. When he was small, before he was called to speak to his father in court, to report his progress with training or studies, he always liked to imagine that he was carved from cold stone, just like the statues of ancient warriors in the crypts below the city. Father frightened him. Helblindi frightens him, now. Once he has a son and heir, can Býleistr expect a poisoned blade to the ribs, too? 

“As the king wishes,” Býleistr concedes. He smiles across the table at Skaði. 

He wishes that he had never heard the name of Loki Laufeyson.


	2. Chapter 2

Býleistr feels trapped on the dais. A surprising number of courtiers revel with abandon, despite their new king’s brooding presence watching over them. It is a less somber occasion, somehow, than the last Winter Winds, which Utgard has not celebrated since before Laufey’s death. Father did not care for dancing. Indeed, Father had not cared for merriment of any kind, aside from the occasional drunken feasting following a successful hunt. 

That isn’t to say that the festival is free of the uneasy air that hangs always over Loki’s reign, but the tension is subdued enough that, if he wished, Býleistr could almost imagine that Loki was raised alongside him here in Utgard - that the way of things now is exactly how they’ve always been meant to be. 

Except, Býleistr likely wouldn’t exist at all, then, would he? If their father had an heir borne of his first queen, perhaps he would have kept to his vow to never take another wife or consort. Býleistr glares at Loki from the corner of his eye.  _ A danger to my existence then,  _ he thinks,  _ and a danger to it now.  _

The human is noticeably absent, and Býleistr wonders if that is the reason why Loki’s smile seems so stiff and false. It is a good idea to keep her away from the crowds, but Býleistr cannot help his disappointment; he wonders how a primitive mortal specimen might respond to the overwhelming stimulus of the Winter Winds.

He lets out an annoyed little huff when Skaði tries, once again, to lure the king into the dancing. He has never seen her so obviously desperate, and it makes his nose wrinkle.  _ Beautiful Skaði, so eager to marry a king.  _ After centuries of hearing his Skaði is so  _ perfect _ and a  _ credit to her tribe  _ and on and on ad nauseum, Býleistr is delighted by her public failure. He watches as she marches off to join some of her companions, haughty as ever, and he barely resists the urge to snicker.  _ A valiant attempt, Lady Skaði.  _

He smells In-Unga before he sees her; her scent reminds him of dirt - but not in an unpleasant way. No, the mortal smells like the dark, rich soil that is only occasionally exposed when a tree topples in Járnviðr, its roots dragging up dirt that has been buried too deep to freeze.  _ Earth and something a little sweet. _ He closes his eyes, trying to place the scent. 

His eyes open as Loki shifts forward on his throne.  _ I wonder what he is thinking. He does not look happy to see his pet.  _ That only makes Býleistr  _ happier _ to see her - what could possibly entertain him more than Loki’s discomfort? Smiling, he slips from his seat on the dais and weaves his way through the reveling courtiers.  _ Look at her, dressed just like him. Loki does love to rub everyone’s nose in his oddities, doesn’t he? _

But… Býleistr will admit that she looks fetching, as does Gjálp Geirröðardóttir, who has spotted him from across the room and seems to be dreading his imminent arrival. She bows when he reaches them; the mortal does not. “A mortal at the Mid-Winter feasting,” he says. “How  _ strange. _ Did you draw these markings on her face, Gjálp?”

“No, sire. That was my sister.” 

“Hmm.” He looks around the room, trying to imagine how it all must seem from a mortal’s height. Is she not overwhelmed? “Is there dancing on Midgard?”

“Yes, sire,” In-Unga says. 

He is certain that she is trying to be evasive, and he nearly laughs. “And do  _ you _ dance, In-Unga?”

“I…” 

“She knows nothing of our dances, Prince Býleistr,” Gjálp offers. 

“Well,” Býleistr says, “let us see if she is a quick study.” He grabs In-Unga’s arm and leads her into the rings of dancers surrounding the ice heart, his spirits improving by the moment. The evening is proving far more interesting than expected. People stare, but Býleistr doesn’t mind. He has had a lifetime of stares. It is the burden of a prince, and he doesn’t intend to let them spoil his fun. 

In-Unga will likely be crushed if he shoves her directly into the fray, so Býleistr leads her into the very center of the rings of dancers, jostling a few overzealous celebrants out of the way with a well-placed elbow to ensure that the mortal makes it through in one piece. “This is where the children dance,” he tells her, “within the circle, where they will not cause a collision if they make mistakes.” 

In-Unga stares - at him, at the children dancing around the ice-heart, at the bright light itself. There is curiosity in her eyes, but it is tempted by fear. 

Býleistr sighs. “You must be bold. When you join the dance, you must jump in bravely, and leave all fears behind. Speak, In-Unga.”

“I mean, I’m afraid,” she mumbles, and then she adds an unconvincingly-deferential “ _ sire _ .”

“I know this,” he says. “I can tell. They can  _ all _ tell. But you must drive your fears away like the wind, and they will see that, too.” 

She finally nods, and Býleistr grins.  _ This is going to be such fun.  _ “You must learn by doing. You could watch for an age, and it would never teach you. Start with your left foot, facing outward. Step left-right-left, turn-and-clap. Now, you are facing the light,  _ and _ right-and-step, turn-and-clap. Now for the left again. Are you prepared, mortal?”.

“The king—”

“How could he possibly object? My esteemed brother is the one who decided that you should learn our ways, isn’t he?” He taps the runes on her golden collar with one finger to prove his point. If she can learn to read and write, if Loki can deck her out in gold and expensive leathers and furs, then why shouldn’t she partake in their dancing? 

“Okay,” she squeaks. Her first steps are halting and clumsy, and she bites her lip in concentration, frowning as she stares at her traitorous feet. It warms his heart, though he doesn’t understand why. In fact, he is flustered by it.

“No, no. You clap  _ as _ you turn, mortal.” 

He thinks himself an exceptionally patient teacher, especially considering the ungainly footwork of his pupil, and once she has progressed to some level of proficiency, Býleistr pulls her into a more complex ring of the dance. The mortal pauses, and he shoves a prancing young giantess out of the way before the ridiculous creature gets herself trampled.  _ “Move, _ In-Unga,” he tells her, and he is delighted when she immediately complies. He can  _ see _ the fear draining from her; with every step, her eyes brighten, when she starts to smile, impressed by her own progress, Býleistr allows himself a smile, too. When the music stops, In-Unga careens into him, and Býleistr lets out a laugh as he tries to catch his breath. She beams at him as he guides her back through the rowdy crowds - a smile meant just for  _ him _ \- and Býleistr’s heart beats faster than the drums.

Gjálp hurries to meet them. “Sire, how  _ kind _ of you, to show the mortal how to dance. I will reclaim her from you, so that you may return to the festivities.”

His smile threatens to reappear. He is spending his evening dancing and talking to pretty girls, while Loki sits and scowls upon his throne. Being a king seems far less amusing than being a prince, Býleistr decides. “Nonsense, Gjálp. What could possibly be more entertaining than the only mortal on Jotunheim? I assure you that my brothers’ conversation could not possibly compare.”

Gjálp inclines her head. “I should feed her soon, sire; she has not eaten in some time, and you know that mortals are fragile.”

“Of course, of course,” he says. “I will accompany you.” He guides them towards one of the food-tables and selects a plump firberry. “Your sister leads the dancing tonight, instead of you?”

“The Queen Mother wished it, my prince,” Gjálp says, “and she is very graceful at it, is she not?”

“She is. I’m sure she’ll be swarmed by admirers.” He takes a bite of the fruit, wondering how to ease their conversation. “It is very interesting, I find, that In-Unga wears your markings.”

Gjálp blushes prettily. “They suit her well, sire.”

“Hmm.”  _ They do, _ he thinks.  _ Better than Loki’s markings, in any case.  _ He cannot understand, though, why In-Unga carries herself differently tonight. She is nervous, of course, but there is something unfamiliar about her, some hint of newfound confidence - or maybe pride. He cocks his head and ponders her scent.  _ Is that changed, as well? _ “There is something different about you,” he tells In-Unga, lowering his voice, “but, I cannot rightly tell what it is.”

_ Panic.  _ He does not understand the cause, at first, but then Býleistr can smell Loki nearing them, too. He smirks.  _ Ah _ .  _ She fears Loki’s jealousy. Well, it is hardly a surprise, given how she has smiled with me tonight.  _

“Býleistr,” Loki says, “I’d thought you clever, yet here you stand, in open defiance of your king.”

“I would  _ never _ defy Loki Laufeyson. Your valuable little mortal pet remains entirely undamaged. In fact,” he adds, leaning closer to twist the knife in Loki’s possessive prose, “I think that she might’ve even  _ enjoyed _ herself.” He puts his hand on In-Unga’s shoulder, feeling exceptionally satisfied with himself. 

“You should return to your mother’s side, boy.”

“Sire—” Gjálp begins.

Býleistr interrupts her with an ever-widening smile. “Why are you so very  _ agitated, _ Brother? Surely you do not suppose that I would hurt—” He stops abruptly, distracted by the feeling of…  _ something _ . Is it Loki’s magic? His hand feels warmer as he moves it closer to In-Unga’s neck, a strange, unfamiliar tingling in his fingertips. He feels her tense, and before she can dart away, he slips his fingers under the neck of her tunic. It feels as if all of the air has left the room.

_ Marked.  _ Her neck bears raised scars, unmistakable under his fingertips. Býleistr’s chest feels uncomfortably tight. He cannot seem to muster a cohesive train of thought. 

_ “Býleistr,” _ Loki hisses, his fist clenching at his side. 

_ He did it. He mated her _ . It is impossible, but it is the truth; Loki’s wrath dashes any hopes that he might be mistaken. It is unnatural -  _ obscene _ . Býleistr gathers himself and leans down. “Does  _ your _ skin bear the mark of a mortal’s bite,  _ King of Jotunheim?” _

“Leave it be, or prepare yourself to face the consequences.”

“Look at yourself.  _ Mighty _ Inn-Illi, brought low by a woman, and a mortal woman, at that.” Býleistr readies himself for a blow, but none fall. He waits for Loki to defend himself, or to say something or  _ do something,  _ but Loki stands still, only his eyes revealing his murderous rage. Býleistr laughs, all of his joy gone. “Another of your shameful  _ secrets _ to keep,” he says, and then he stalks away, furious with himself for being so terribly disappointed. 

* * *

_ Another secret to keep. _

Býleistr stares at the book in his hand. The leather binding is beautiful, as are the costly, pristine pages within. The neat, careful handwriting on a page labeled ‘Midgard’ reads,  _ For your adventures, Prince B _ . He closes the journal with a snap and tucks it onto a high shelf. Best to leave it here, he thinks, buried with all of the other books that hardly anyone in the palace ever touches. If Helblindi has his chambers searched, such a sentimental gift from Loki’s pet will be taken as damning evidence of Býleistr’s conflicted loyalties. 

“Loki Laufeyson would have been better off dying on a Dökkálfar blade,” Skaði says, looking down from the archive window at the bloody spectacle in the courtyard below. 

“I did not know that you cared for Loki,” Býleistr replies. He wishes that she would leave, but he can only assume that Helblindi has sent her to keep an eye on him.  _ For Býleistr’s safety,  _ of course; Helblindi has expressed his concerns that the Lesser Children of Laufey might harbor traitors loyal to Loki - traitors who might seek revenge for their false king’s deposition.

Býleistr knows how things now stand between them, and if he’d harbored any doubts, the pretty speech about  _ concern _ and  _ revenge _ have taken care of them. If he takes one step out of line, he will meet with an untimely death, and Helblindi will happily pass the blame along to one of their half-siblings. He can even imagine his brother’s face, delivering the tragic news to the court.  _ ‘Prince Býleistr has been murdered by one of Loki’s loyal snakes. We must redouble our efforts to root out the poison that has taken hold of Utgard.’ _

Býleistr shudders. He hopes that he isn’t having premonitions. He’s been spending every waking hour fretting over the varied ways he could die within the next few days. He turns from the bookshelf he’s been pretending to examine. “Well, Skaði?”

“He unsettled me.” She drums her fingers on the frosted windowpane. “That Æsir accent, the skin, the  _ clothing _ . You were not yet born when they came to Jotunheim, but I was.”

“You’d have been a child.”

“A child can still see things, Býleistr,” she snaps, and when he stares at her, she catches herself and barely bows her head. “Prince Býleistr.”

“Shouldn’t you be down in the courtyard, then? You will miss Loki’s suffering. You wouldn’t want that.”

“And you? Why is my prince not taking his part in the proceedings?”

Býleistr shrugs. “I know my brother well enough to be certain that I am not missing any particularly scintillating conversation. Anything Helblindi manages to drag out of Loki now will be repeated at the public execution, or trial, or whatever he has decided to call it.”

“I think that you would not be so unimpressed, Prince Býleistr, if it was your kingdom that had been stolen. Prince Helblindi was raised with the expectation that he would rule—”

“ _ ‘Prince _ Helblindi?’”

“King Helblindi,” Skaði amends, her eyes still on the courtyard. “There is no other path for him.”

Scoffing, Býleistr turns back to his bookshelves. “And are you pleased to have your position as queen secured, Lady Skaði? Considering Loki’s fickleness, I am sure that this newest development is a welcome one.”

“Of course. It is the reason I exist, after all.”

“Do I detect melancholy, Skaði?”

“No,” she says. “I am quite pleased. The king should exercise caution, that’s all. Your father would have killed Loki quickly and been done with it.”

“Yours wouldn’t,” Býleistr counters. “In fact, Skaði, I think that Lord Þjazi is urging my brother to do far worse than he’s already done. Tell me, how  _ did _ Helblindi come by bloodburn?”

Her eyes are fiery. “I did not provide it, if that is what you mean to suggest.”

“I did not suggest anything at all. The wars against Muspelheim were long before my time, or yours, or even my father’s; I am simply saying that an old relic like bloodburn poison would likely be possessed by an old lord or lady - one who battled with the fire demons.” He sees something in her expression.  _ Guilt? Fear? _ “Why protest, Skaði? I am sure that you will be rewarded for your efforts… or your father, for his.”

“I am not a poisoner,” she hisses, her violet lips pulling back in a semblance of a snarl. “Had I wanted Loki Laufeyson dead, sire, I would have put an arrow deep into his treacherous heart.”

He’s taken aback by her fire, but he tries to keep his features schooled. “Ah,” he says. “But you never did. Will our new king forgive that failing, I wonder?”

“I cannot say, Prince Býleistr, but if King Helblindi will forgive your own failings on the matter of Loki Laufeyson, then I can hope he will forgive mine.”

A muscle in Býleistr’s jaw twitches. He has taken up the unfortunate habit of clenching his teeth, and another headache surely awaits him. He decides to be blunt. “Did he tell you to follow me, Skaði?”

“No.”

“Yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.” She hesitates, then her posture straightens. “Would you be so kind as to escort me down to the throne room, my prince? The halls are empty and strange.”

He inclines his head. Her reticence is understandable; he does not trust her, either. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Skaði.”

* * *

Býleistr stands on his window ledge, his heart in his throat.  _ If Rekwaz can do it,  _ he tells himself,  _ then so can I.  _ There is no other way out into the city, not unless he wants to announce his midnight wanderings to the entire palace. His drab grey cloak whips around him as the wind howls. Rekwaz is gone. Greip is in the dungeons. Gjálp seems too terrified to speak to him, and he is certain that Helblindi will take great interest in any conversation they might have, anyway. Býleistr imagines that his ancestors are laughing in the wind, enjoying the irony of it all.  _ Loki did leap from a cliff… _ but then, Loki was also able to shift into another skin before he hit the rocky river below. Býleistr will hit the frozen stone courtyard with only his own skin and a layer of snow to cushion him. 

He takes a deep breath and makes the leap.

* * *

Hooded and cloaked, Býleistr slinks through the stables, the silver serpent-brooch burning a hole in his pocket. He could claim that he took it as a souvenir from one of the defeated, if he is stopped by the guards, but that will not explain why he is returning from the northern wall of the city just before daybreak. He’d hoped to uncover some of Loki’s ‘snakes’ in hiding, but if any of them remain free, he cannot find them. It might be for the best; they’d likely sooner kill him than trust him. 

He will need to speak with Gjálp. He can trust her… or, if he  _ cannot _ trust her, then he has no hope at all. He wishes that he had a way to get a message to Rekwaz.  _ If only that fool Hrossþjófr hadn’t gotten himself sent back to the coast. He could actually prove useful, for once.  _

He enters through the upper kitchens. Under normal circumstances, they would already be bustling, but that dreadful sense of quiet gloom still hangs over the entire palace. Helblindi’s warriors might’ve spent the night feasting and drinking, but the servants certainly aren’t celebrating. Býleistr grabs a handful of biscuits to take with him to his rooms, discarding his drab cloak in an alcove far from his wing of the palace. He ruffles his hair and loudly yawns as a maid hurries past. 

She stops and bows her head. “Has no one brought you breakfast yet, Prince Býleistr? I apologize, I will see to it at once.”

“I’ve already taken care of it,” he replies. “Though… you may go and fetch Gjálp Geirröðardóttir for me. Have her brought to my chambers.”

“Gjálp Geirröðardóttir?” she asks with marked trepidation.

“Yes. Will that be a problem?”

“No, sire. I will go to her at once.”

Býleistr takes the maid’s concern as a positive sign. He must have given the impression that he intends to do terrible things to Gjálp Geirröðardóttir, and that is a far better rumor to reach Helblindi’s ears than one of conspiracy.

When he reaches his chambers, he strolls past the puzzled guards at the door. “When did you leave?” one of them asks, and Býleistr fixes him with an icy stare.

“I am certain that you did not dare to address Býleistr Laufeyson with such little respect,” he said. “In any case, it is hardly my responsibility to do your job for you, is it? Oh, and I have sent for Gjálp Geirröðardóttir. Admit her, when she arrives, and if she is not here within the half-hour, you are to go and find her. Do you understand?”

“I… Yes, sire.”

“Good,” Býleistr said, then he slammed the door closed and allowed himself a moment to panic. Was he convincing? Did royal hauteur overwhelm the guard’s suspicions? He discards his biscuits; there is no hope of finding his appetite, not with his heart in his throat. 

He is playing with fire.

Fire consumes. And, when it is gone, it leaves nothing behind but ash.

* * *

Gjálp is left in his doorway by a stern soldier. She will not look at him, and Býleistr ushers her inside, hoping that it is a facade that will fade once they are alone. It does not.

“Gjálp.” He knows that she claims to have forsaken Loki, but he doesn’t believe it for a minute. No, Gjálp is far too sweet and softhearted and stubbornly-loyal. He can trust her. He has to trust her. “Look at me, Gjálp.” She complies, but she is fearful.  _ Of me? _ he wonders.  _ Is she truly afraid of me? _ “Do you know why I have summoned you?”

“King Helblindi has asked you to question me about my sister, I expect,” she says softly, her gaze returning to a spot on the floor near his bare feet. “Or to question me about Loki Laufeyson. I have already told him everything I know that might be of use, sire.”

“Have you?” He sincerely doubts it. “Gjálp, I did not have you brought here for questioning. I called for you because I will need your help to save them. Your sister, In-Unga… I doubt that there is anything we could hope to do for Loki, but—”

She flings herself into his arms and begins to sob, and Býleistr, perplexed, pets her hair in an effort to soothe her. “Oh, Býleistr,” she cries, “I thought that I had lost you, too, or that you had never truly cared for any of us at all.” Her weeping is a ragged, raw thing, and she hiccups and buries her face against his chest, her tears soon adorning his tunic. “I  _ had _ to denounce Sister,” she continues. “Greip told me that I  _ had _ to, and I will never forgive myself, even if I live for twenty thousand years. And it is all for nothing! I am not allowed to go anywhere at all without an escort, and Father will not speak with me - I might as well be there with her, for all of the use I am—”

“Greip was right. With her connection to Hross… she could’ve begged and wept, and Helblindi would not have believed a word of it. He is not that stupid.”

Gjalp lets out another muffled cry. “Then, I should be even more reason to be ashamed, if it is so easy to believe that I have betrayed my sister, my king, and all of my dearest friends.”

“Do you know… do you know, well, anyone in the city who might be able to offer aid? Anyone Helblindi’s men might’ve missed?”

“Outside of the palace? Surely. Many of the commoners had begun to grow quite fond of him. They are likely inconsequential to Prince Helblindi, but… I am sure that they are out there.”

“Could you find them?”

“Perhaps, but I cannot leave the palace.”

His mind races. “How is your climbing?”

“My climbing?”

He takes her hand and pulls her over to his window, which has seen more excitement in the past few days than in all of its prior existence. “I could keep you here for a time,” he says. “Or, that could be the story, I mean. The guards aren’t particularly good at guarding. I do not think that they find me a very interesting subject. If they assume we are together for the night, then no one will expect you elsewhere.”

“Oh,” she says, and then her cheeks flush.  _ “Oh.” _

“It is not a terrible jump,” he hurries to add. “The snow is heavy, half of the palace is either in the dungeons or hiding away, hoping to avoid trouble. If you think that you could make it back to my window.”

“I can. But, if I do manage to make contact with those who would support Loki, what shall I do? No one could free the prisoners from the dungeons. It is a maze. They’d be cornered and killed in a heartbeat.”

“Listen to me,” Býleistr says. “There is not even the slightest chance that Helblindi will allow me to leave the dais during Loki’s execution. But, that is also the moment when he will be out in the open, along with your sister and all of the others.” He takes a breath. “If you do find anyone willing to risk life and limb for Loki’s sake, that is the moment to make a move. You will need chaos - as much as you can possibly create.”

Gjalp leans over the window ledge, shivering as the cold wind hits her. “Chaos,” she says. “I understand.”

* * *

“I heard that you have visited your prize, Brother,” Helblindi says casually, and Býleistr pauses with a spoonful of broth half-raised to his lips.

“Well, yes. She is quite stubborn. I believe that she considers Loki Inn-Illi invincible.” And then, despite his mothers’s eyes pleading for him to turn the subject to anything else, he adds, “Honestly, Helblindi, I wish you’d toss her in with him - let her see him decay.” He finishes off his sip of soup. “Perhaps she’d be a bit more appreciative of my care, then.”

To Býleistr’s relief, his brother laughs. The wooden spoon in his hand has a hairline crack from his nervous grip. He sets it aside. 

“He  _ does _ look pathetic, doesn’t he?” Helblindi says. “I will admit that I find the idea amusing. Father spoke of that, you know. Women wailing after a battle. When I have the seidberandi’s corpse back from the coast, we will see if Greip Geirröðardóttir finally deins to shed a tear.” He frowns, then. “I did offer to take her as mine, and she refused. A dire mistake, that, but a good display of her poor judgment. I imagine she would have made a terrible wife.”

Skaði does not so much as flinch at the declaration, and neither does Fárbauti. Býleistr listlessly pokes at the lone chunk of meat floating in his soup.  _ The seidberandi’s corpse.  _ Helblindi intends to declare war, then. He cannot possibly mean to kill the heir to Márfjall without starting a war. At least it means that Greip is still in one piece - and defiant, it would seem. He can still feel Gjálp trembling in his arms, so relieved just to discover that she is not completely alone. 

_ Norns.  _ It is all such a tremendous disaster. 

“My king,” Skaði says, “may I take my leave?”

“No. Where else would you go? Is there anything more riveting than the king’s table, Skaði?”

“No, sire.”

“Good.” He points to a guard near the door. “Have the mortal and her master reunited,” he says.

“Son,” Fárbauti says, “if you do not have his wounds cleaned and tended to, Loki could very well perish before his execution. I do not think—”

“He will endure. He has his  _ magic _ . Hasn’t he always been so proud of his spellcraft?”

“Just so,” says Dolgfinnr, a lord who has happily fallen into Helindi’s circle of influence. “Toss a bucket of water over him before the execution, perhaps, if he has managed to become unrecognizably filthy.”

Skaði clears her throat. “My uncle sends his best wishes for your reign, my king, and he has accepted your invitation. He sent word to me that he will be arriving as soon as the storms allow it.”

“Good, good. He will be an excellent help as we try to restore some order to our kingdom. Býleistr?”

“Yes?”

Helblindi licks his knife clean. “We shall have to see that you spend more time training. You have always been soft, and recent months have left you woefully unprepared for the work that lies ahead of us.”

“Rebuilding the city has proven to be excellent exercise,” Býleistr responds without thinking, and then he bites his tongue. “Oh? Did you know, Mother, that my brother’s ambitions were so lowly, that he is content with overseeing menial labor?”

“That is not what I said, Brother.”

“Even Skaði could knock you onto your back in a fight.”

“Now, my son,” Farbaui says, “dear Skaði is the foremost huntress in Jotunheim; she has defeated many a man in combat.”

“Perhaps, but she is still only a woman, and a prince of Jotunheim should be able to best a  _ woman _ . You will not wiggle your way out of this, little brother. You have obligations to your king and to your family.”

“I understand,” Býleistr says. He wishes that he could laugh at Skadi’s discomfort, but he cannot. He continues to poke at his food, wondering if he’ll ever have an appetite again. 

* * *

Býleistr sits by his mother’s side on the royal dais, trying to pay attention to Helblindi’s words. He speaks of power and glory and war, and Býleistr thinks of Márfjall, and of the lords and ladies who pledged themselves to Loki. That moment had felt… moving. Býleistr doesn’t feel moved now. He only feels apprehension.

The pit in his stomach grows colder when prisoners are dragged into the hall. Loki is eventually brought forth, too, and all of the air leaves the room as In-Unga’s wild eyes seem to fix directly on Býleistr. “Traitors!” she screeches. “How can you—”

The guard holding her smothers her cries with a heavy hand. Helblindi beckons for her to be brought forward. Býleistr had  _ hoped _ that she had the sense to stay quiet and avoid Helblindi’s attention, but he realizes now that it was a foolish hope. The little wretch is going to get herself killed. She has more fire than sense - does she not understand how very hard he’s worked to keep her alive? Does she not understand that it is Loki’s wish that she live, regardless of his own fate? He’s wondered if mate-bonds truly make women less unruly, but he supposes the answer to that is  _ ‘no.’ _ By Ymir, if anything, In-Unga seems more unruly than ever.  _ If you die now, mortal, after all that I have done, I will never forgive you. If you get me killed for nothing—  _

Helblindi smiles. “In-Unga. Such a surprising amount of trouble, wrapped in such a small, fragile package. Are you certain that you want to keep her, Brother?”

Býleistr pretends to consider it. No - he truly  _ does _ consider it. It isn’t too late. He can tell Helblindi that there are traitors in his court. He can live the life that he was always meant to live - and he can keep In-Unga, and perhaps caring for her will ease some of his conscience. She will hate him, of course, but she hated Loki once, too. People are going to die tonight, no matter what he decides to do.

His mother’s grip tightens on his arm in warning. It is not the time for a crisis of indecision.

“I suppose,” Býleistr says. “I enjoy challenges.”

In-Unga’s guard discards her at Býleistr’s feet. She emanates wrothful fire, and he has to hold onto her shoulder to keep her from dashing down into the crowd when she spots Gjálp.  _ Stay still. Norns, mortal, please stay still.  _

“Bring in the rest of the snake loyalists,” Helblindi declares. “They should not miss the end of their king, and I should allow them one final opportunity to forswear their allegiance.”

Prisoners are marched before their new king, and foremost among them is Greip, badly beaten. In-Unga begins to lurch forward, but he drags her back. The look she gives him burns straight through his skull.  _ Oh, Ancestors, _ Býleistr thinks. _ It will be soon. Soon.  _

“Lord Geirröðr, have you anything to say for your daughter?” asks Helblindi. 

“My daughter is young and foolish, my king,” Geirröðr replies, stepping up before the dais. He doesn’t even glance back to where Greip stands in chains. “You must consider that she was tasked with serving Loki Laufeyson, as was her sister, by the Queen Mother. This dogged loyalty—”

“Do you regret your decision, Greip Geirröðardóttir?” Helblindi interrupts, leaning forward in his seat. Their mother sends him a look of caution, which he blatantly ignores. “Will you renounce Loki Laufeyson and beg your king’s forgiveness?”

“You are no king of mine, Prince Helblindi,” she replies, her head held high. “And as for me, I will sleep peacefully with our ancestors in the Realm Beyond knowing that I have done what is right.”

Helblindi’s face contorts in anger, and he raises a hand. The burly guard at Greip’s side grabs her shoulder and shoves her forward, away from the rest of the prisoners, and the gathered crowd in the throne room grows more uneasy. 

“My son,” Fárbauti begins, placing a hand on Helblindi’s arm, “she is your kin—”

His hand lowers, and he settles back, still scowling. “In my mercy, Geirröðardóttir, I have given you ample time to reconsider your stance, but unlike my lady mother, I am able to see the danger of leaving serpents underfoot.”

_ The reinforcements should’ve arrived by now.  _ Býleistr’s hand trembles. Gjálp has gone from the throne room, but she has not returned. Was she caught by the guards? Has it all been for nothing?  _ Greip is going to die right now, in this very moment, and no one has come to stop it. No. It can’t end like this, it can’t, it can’t—  _

“If you are so determined to follow your usurper-king,” Helblindi continues, his voice rising as he stands, “then you shall.”

“My king,” Fárbauti says, “my son, she is a child—”

“No, Queen Mother, she isn’t,” Helblindi retorts. “She is of age, and she has made her choice. I will not suffer traitors to live in my kingdom.”

“You would kill your clanswoman?” an outraged Skógr-Jötnar calls from the back of the throng. “A girl who has not yet left her father’s house?”

Helblindi seethes on his stolen throne. “I wonder, Loki, if you return this fidelity that your young followers so blindly offer you?”

“What do you want, Helblindi?” Loki says. His head sags. Býleistr doesn’t understand how he isn’t dead. He  _ looks _ like he should’ve died days ago. 

“I’m not completely without mercy. Show me how to work the Casket of Ancient Winters, and I will allow Greip Geirröðardóttir to live.”

When Loki laughs, it’s a hollow, rattling rasp. “Show you?”

“Yes. You have cursed the thing so that I may not use it. You’ve rendered one of the most valuable relics of  _ my  _ people all but worthless.”

“I hate to disappoint, Little Brother,” Loki replies, “but I’ve done nothing to the Casket, as I’ve told you already. If it won’t reveal its powers to you, that is through your own failings, not mine.”

_ “Liar.” _

“About many things, yes; this is not one of them.”

Greip meets Býleistr’s eyes, then. _ She is not fearless, _ he thinks.  _ She is full of fear, but she is still brave.  _ He searches the crowd as Helblindi steps down from the dais, but no one steps forward to confront him. Gjalp has not reappeared. Býleistr expects to see her brought back in chains at any moment. There is a high-pitched ringing in his ears, drowning out Helblindi’s words. Utgard is uneasy; its people are uneasy, too.  _ No matter what I do, _ he thinks again,  _ people are going to die tonight.  _

“And what of the mortal, Loki Laufeyson?” Helblindi asks. “What if I picked her apart, piece by piece, until you revealed the secrets of the Casket?”

“There is no secret,” Loki replies. “I love her, and I will gladly die for her, but there is no secret, and nothing you can do will change that.”

The gathered crowd begins to murmur loudly. Býleistr searches one last time for some sign that help is on its way, but with every second that ticks by, the last of his hope fades. Even if help is coming, they will not arrive in time.  _ And no one can give them more time.  _ He hopes that his last memory of the palace isn’t of an execution. It is better to picture the last festival, he decides. He enjoyed the dancing. Býleistr closes his eyes, but only for a moment. 

Býleistr cannot afford to wait any longer. 

Helblindi has already begun to declare Greip’s death-sentence. He leans down and tucks one of In-Unga’s own daggers into her belt. If he dies, at least she’ll have the opportunity to die fighting, too. That will take her to Valhalla - mortals  _ do _ still hope to go to Valhalla after death, do they not? “Move,” he whispers, “and I will kill you. Understand?” 

She nods.

He stands. The ringing in his ears is louder still, and he steps forward, waiting for someone to strike him down before he reaches his brother. He waits for his mother to try to stop him.  _ Someone is going to die tonight,  _ he thinks, dazed,  _ and it is probably going to be me. _ He reaches behind his back, where In-Unga’s second dagger remains tucked away. “Brother, I must object,” Býleistr says, and then he launches himself at Helblindi as his mother screams.

The room falls to madness, but Býleistr is only vaguely aware of the smells and the noise of it all. “Helblindi, please,” he says as they grapple over the knife in his hand. “We are  _ brothers _ .”

“You do not deserve to be the brother of a king,” Helblindi hisses. He slams Býleistr’s hand into the stone floor, and bones crack. Fárbauti sobs and pleads for mercy beside them, but she cannot pull Helblindi away. “You have always been useless, Býleistr.” He wraps his hand around Býleistr’s throat and slams his head against the stone. Býleistr sees stars. “Thinking yourself so smart—” he pushes their mother aside and slams Býleistr’s head into the stone again— “so much  _ cleverer _ . But never strong.”

“Helblindi,” Fárbauti wails. Býleistr blinks, and he realizes that the sweat on his brow is blood. His brother seizes his collar and drags him up the steps of the dais, retrieving the club that stands propped against his throne. Fárbauti clutches at his arm. “Son, you cannot—”

“I can,” Helblindi says. He puts his foot on Býleistr’s chest, leaning heavily onto him as his eyes burn.”You betrayed me. My blood. My  _ brother _ . My _ only true brother.” _

“Helblindi,” Býleistr says, he raising an arm to shield himself, “I am sorry that—”

The blow falls, unhesitating. Býleistr hopes that his death means something. 

He is left in the darkness, alone.

* * *

Býleistr is uncomfortable, but he cannot move. A familiar scent tickles his nose.  _ In-Unga _ . Have they both died and ended up in the same region of Hel? That would be quite the twist. Is it possible to even smell someone, in a dream? 

He opens his eyes.  _ Not in Hel, unless Hel has windows. _ In-Unga is beside him, bruised, but whole. He peers out of the corner of his eye and sees that she is watching Greip and Hross - the latter of whom is being predictably ridiculous.  _ Am I alive? _ he wonders.

“I would like to request a kiss for my heroism, if kisses are being bestowed.”

“Want me to call Hross over?”

He grimaces. “Never mind.”

She laughs and leans over to kiss his cheek. He doesn’t know how to respond, but the warmth soothes some of his heartache. “Thank you, Bý,” she tells him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“No need,” he replies. “I doubted myself, also. Cannot believe I did something so stupid. Nearly died for  _ Loki, _ of all people.”

Her smile vanishes. “I’m sorry, Býleistr. I can’t say I’ll miss Helblindi, but he was your brother, too, and I wish things could’ve ended differently.”

_ Helblindi is dead. _ He supposes she must’ve thought that he’d already known. 

Býleistr cannot bear to see the pity on her face. He closes his eyes. “He was not the king that Jotunheim needed. He was cruel - crueler than Father, and I never knew Laufey to be kind. There would’ve been war.” He tries to roll away, to escape a conversation that is leaving him far too raw and vulnerable, but he cannot manage it; there are things broken inside of him that have yet to begin to heal. He bites the inside of his cheek as hard as he can, determined not to cry in front of her. “All of you would’ve died. Even the ones he’d promised to spare, sooner or later.”

“Your friends, you mean?”

“Acquaintances.”

“Right.” She carefully tucks him in, smoothing the fur blanket over him. Býleistr realizes that she smells like  _ peace _ , and he imagines that he is in the sleigh bound for adventure. He imagines that his brothers both live, and that he was never made to choose between them. He pictures the starry sky above his head and hears the crash of distant waves. 

* * *

Býleistr perks up when his chamber door opens, but when Loki appears, he sinks back against his pillows. “Oh,” he says. The medicines are making his tongue loose; he shouldn’t have said anything at all. 

“Disappointed, little brother?”

“Yes,” he replies, and then he frowns, because he hadn’t meant to say that, either. “Have you come to deliver your judgment, Your Majesty? I heard the guards speaking amongst themselves. They say I am loyal to no one.  _ Opportunist _ . You’ll execute me quietly and be done with it. Or I will succumb to injury. That is what they say.”

“Is it?” Loki asks, amused. 

“You look appalling,” Býleistr says. 

“As do you, Býleistr. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course.”

Býleistr laughs. It hurts. Loki takes a seat at the foot of his bed, and Býleistr’s ribs ache even worse as he struggles to sit upright. 

“Be still,” Loki says. “You are going to hurt yourself.” He fidgets with his hands, then laces his fingers together and sighs. “I am going to tell you something, and I cannot imagine myself ever repeating it, so you’d best listen.”

“How exciting.”

Loki looks him in the eye. “I am…  _ proud _ of you. I know that it was not easy, what you did. I owe you my life. More importantly—”

“It was for Jotunheim,” Býleistr interrupts, his face hot, “and for the sake of my own skin.”

Loki’s smile returns. “Of course,” he replies, “but it was also because you are kind, Býleistr, and because you are… dare I even suggest it? An honorable man.”

Býleistr doesn’t know what he is meant to say. He could be in yet another fever-dream; Norns know he has had enough of them. And, Loki certainly does not  _ sound _ like Loki. 

“You are my heir, Býleistr,” he continues. “When I make a formal declaration, I assume it will put the rumors of your impending execution to rest.”

“But… I told you, Loki, I have no aspirations to be king.”

“Well, I know that. I also fully  _ intend _ to have my own children to succeed me, but I trust you.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Relatively, of course. It is mostly a symbolic gesture. I will expect you to attend council meetings.”

“Oh?”

“I will also insist that you travel to Asgard with the royal delegation, once we have established a reliable means of travel. Midgard, too.”

Býleistr tries to contain his excitement. “And the others? The rest of the Nine?”

Loki’s lip twitches. “In time. I am sending your mother to Márfjall to personally make amends to Lady Hyrja,” Loki says. “I will allow you to accompany her, if you wish, but the choice is yours.”

“I will think on it.”

“Very well.” Loki pats his knee and stands stiffly, and his discomfort greatly lifts Býleistr’s spirits. “Get some sleep, Býleistr.”

“And are you going to give me a kiss on the cheek, too, Loki?” Býleistr teases. “Your wife did.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Sleep, Býleistr.”

Býleistr dreams of journeys through the stars.


End file.
